Bunny Stirrup didn’t need a mirror. She caught a dazzling image of herself in the admiring eyes of everyone she passed as she circulated in triumph through the stylish crowd at the Guggenheim. The thousand details that Bunny had occupied herself with as chairwoman of Armani for Everyone had blended into an absolutely brilliant event, and she ascended the gallery in awe of her own mastery.
She had worried a bit about the location. The museum’s retrospective of designs by Giorgio Armani, Milanese icon of minimalist chic, was the first backdrop she ever felt she might have to fight for prominence. Clusters of mannequins draped in the crisp elegance of Armani’s deconstructed gowns occupied the gallery walls in backlit groups of three and four, organized by color. The gallery lighting had been softened to a romantic, night-light tenderness. The exhibit space Bunny had just left, a darkened room filled with shimmering silver gowns, was a vision of flight, dream, and wonder, with a ringing background of Eastern sacred music enhancing its mysterious appeal.
The mannequins were headless, minimizing their visual competition with the event’s chairwoman. To be safe, Bunny stuck to the rooms with neutrals, the better to be seen in her silver-sprinkled, flame-red gown. Her tiara, which marked her as chair of the event, she had on loan from Harry Winston. Sixteen carats of diamonds sparkled in her hair like dew on the petal of a perfect rose. After her second glass of wine, she felt the tiara simply belonged on her head, and the thought of giving it back to Winston for someone else to wear filled her with indignation.
Where is Edward? she wondered, hurrying her step. If I had done a dinner, I could have kept better tabs on him.
The Guggenheim could do three hundred for dinner, but one thousand for a reception. Bunny couldn’t bear to lord it over the lowly former, and opted to do a cocktail reception with heavy hors d’oeuvres. After all, tonight she would stand in the famous rotunda, encircled by the Frank Lloyd Wright spiral that drew the eye upward to a higher consciousness, awash in publicity, receiving her award. Benefactress to the humble homeless, dispenser of fashion riches to them all, Bunny would stand next to the handsome Edward Kirkland, his Armani tux and tails perfectly coordinated to accent her dazzling gown. She would gleam with diamonds and modesty—after all, this was a charity, and modesty was the appropriate pose—as she was photographed in glory, arm in arm with her catch.
And he would be her catch after tonight, Bunny told herself. Her talks with Edward’s mother had moved from general to specific about the day Bunny Stirrup would marry Catherine Kirkland’s son. Having crossed that perilous bridge over if to when, Bunny was assured that the path to I do had been laid. She was steps away from launching the blessed wedding event in all its splendor.
Edward’s mother was prepared for greatness. She had assured Bunny that the Kirklands in their majesty would make Charles and Diana look like a couple of frumps. The picture of Bunny and Edward taken tonight would be a perfect crown for the glorious wedding announcement that Bunny’s social secretary was composing for the Sunday Times. Radiant and glamorous, their well-bred charitable credentials on display, Bunny and Edward would be the world’s envy.
So where was he? She grew conscious of her hasty step and paused, enjoying her visible position in front of some deliciously drab men’s suits. She decided to search the rooms that housed the museum’s permanent collection, where wine bars and appetizers were set up. Edward always seemed to be eating at these things.
Suppressing a frown, Bunny drew in her breath and reminded herself to occupy the moment.
She caught the eye of Morgan Wyeth, the party poser who had worked with her all afternoon on the proper flutter of her eyes when she accepted her award.
“Avoid the big smile, Bun-bun; in the camera it’s all chin,” he had cautioned. Bunny was stung, but she remembered his tip. “Go with the left shoulder raised, head tipped down toward it. It’s a beautiful pose: all innocence—the village girl at the festival—a wreath of flowers in her hair. It’s Giselle! You can do it. And turn your eyes toward Edward. Nothing is as photogenic these days as a good, steady look of devotion.”
Morgan winked at her, and Bunny felt her power.
Yes, Bunny thought to herself, stroking her tiara, I am in the moment! I’ve caught the wave!
When Bunny heard that Edward was going to London without her, ostensibly to buy a dog, she had impulsively joined her friend Whitney St. Pierre on a beach vacation in Mexico. Camouflaging themselves under Hermes scarves and Chanel sunglasses, they spoke French to each other in the airport until they were sure that nobody on the flight to Miami knew them. The first-class cabin was safe, and the flight to the Baja peninsula was so anonymous that they even reverted to their native tongue.
Their destination was “Girl in the Curl,” a surfing retreat taught by Pacific Paige, motivational speaker and best-selling author of books on improving relationships. Having been conceived on a surfboard (which was then at rest in the sand, he explained to a confused member of the audience), Pacific had the lover’s momentum from the start.
Bunny didn’t surf, nor did she know anyone who did, but Pacific Paige’s retreats were all about conquering the new and unknown. His book, a tattered copy of which Whitney had lent to Bunny, claimed that any woman who could occupy the moment had an aura of irresistibility. This aura would pull friends and lovers in like a wave.
It sounded a little flaky, but Whitney swore that four, count them, four of her friends had gotten engaged within months of attending the retreat. And not just engaged: properly, and profitably. Bunny agreed to go, if only to get a mysterious suntan with which to greet Edward on his return. And it was working. After the weekend in which she waxed a surfboard while chanting, along with twenty other women, an ancient Hawaiian mantra (so effective and covert they had to sign a promise not to repeat the words outside of the retreat facility), she had caught the wave. She returned to New York feeling fearless and magnetic, and began claiming Edward with more authority than she had ever risked in the past. Tonight she would pull him under.
Armani for Everyone, the first big charity event of the fall season, was an important night for a lot of people. Leslie Davis had her husband, Dick, by the arm as she hobnobbed with contemporary sculptor Istvan Grotjan, throwing out as a bone the possibility that she and Dick might fund an important collection of nonobjective art. More than once she carelessly mentioned her interest in serving on the governing board of the Guggenheim. A word from Grotjan would get her into the position just vacated by Armello Canadida’s untimely demise.
In the Thannhauser gallery, Isaac Mizrahi was locked in an animated bond of mutual admiration with Phillip Wilson, an experimental theater director known for his boundary-breaking “mod-umentaries.” Elia Mercer, a buyer for Bergdorf Goodman, had cornered Polly McGover, the style editor at Vogue, and was quietly making the case that Donna Karan, more than any Italian designer, was the proper heir to Armani’s minimalism. Judy Armoire, cocurator of ceramics at the Met, pursued Guggenheim board members throughout the spiraling floor plan in her quest to land the open position as curator of the museum’s Venice location.
Judy had met Edward Kirkland in Chatham, on Cape Cod, last summer at the MSPCA Shag, an event honoring lifesaving pets of the beach patrol. A former art history major from Connecticut College, Judy honed in on museum events, where she could impress attendees with her depth of analysis. She had dated Edward only once since they met, but felt intensely connected to him on a cultural level. She thought he possessed a deep and sensitive soul, and with his Harvard degree she was sure he would make an excellent lifemate for someone as intelligent as she.
Judy was a D-cup, probably a size thirty-eight even after the reduction. She had trouble finding an Armani to fit, but lucked out when she found his Orient collection at Bergdorf’s. A luxuriously embroidered evening jacket and wide-legged pants suited her perfectly, and she walked around the gallery as physically and psychically comfortable as if she were wearing her pajamas. Cradling her chardonnay in a neatly manicured hand, she turned her knowledgeable gaze around the rotunda, deciding which feature of the permanent collection cried out for Italian ceramics as a backdrop. Her eye caught her college classmate, Bunny Stirrup.
“Bunnykins!” she called out, with the false note of sisterhood.
“Jude!” Bunny embraced her.
“You look beautiful,” said Judy. “But I didn’t know it was a costume party!” She laughed, pointing at Bunny’s princess crown.
“Well, why did you dress like a majarishi then?” Bunny said through her teeth.
Judy’s face fell.
“It’s from Armani’s Orient collection,” Judy began. She paused to remind herself—I am valuable—as she had learned in her assertiveness training class.
“The maharajas inspired his fall collection, dear,” Judy said, gaining confidence as she took a scholarly tone. “With their great spiritual wealth.”
“Yes, yes,” Bunny chirped. “Blessed are the meek! I’ve got to run along. Give my best to…”
She paused, waiting for Judy to answer.
“Hmm?” she prompted.
“There’s nobody,” Judy answered at last. She shrugged, looking at the floor.
“I’m so sorry,” Bunny said, smiling viciously. “Ta ta!”
She hurried away with a dazzling smile. She thought she remembered a shrimp cocktail was set up in one of the tower galleries. No doubt Edward had found it by now.
She found him surrounded, as usual, by attentive ladies whom he charmed and flattered in turn. On the wall just behind him, Vasily Kandinsky’s colorful modernist painting Several Circles was on display. Bunny smiled with satisfaction. She knew what to say.
Secretly, and under cover of a red wig, Bunny had attended a series of lectures on the Guggenheim’s architecture and permanent collection in the eerie Peter B. Lewis amphitheater, a puffy auditorium that felt like the inside of a jewelry box. She had intended to drop her choice bon mots about the museum for Edward’s benefit.
“Hello, darling,” she said, elbowing through the hen party to kiss Edward’s lips.
“Hello, Bunny.” Edward smiled affably.
“You know Deb Norwich, Tina Volley,” Edward said, smiling at each in turn. Bunny nodded, her face set in a frozen smile.
“And Babs Stern—of course you know Babs,” he added, indicating the woman who stood closest to him.
“Dear of you to come and support us tonight,” Bunny said. She gathered Babs’ hand in her own to give her a little squeeze, then moved the woman away from Edward as she slid next to him, showing her back to Tina and Deb.
“Oh, the Kandinsky frames you wonderfully,” she said to Edward, edging backward to behold him in front of the painting, a move that caused the other women to shuffle back a bit further.
“It’s so appropriate here in this sensational building! The circle motif is ingenious, don’t you think? Geometric, but so supple, with such elegant plasticity.”
“You would know plastic,” said Tina, turning to leave.
Ignoring her, Bunny beheld Edward with adoring eyes.
“What do you think of the Kandinsky, darling? Those circles put me in mind of champagne bubbles, rising in a clear, chilled flute. Of course the thought of champagne always leads me to you! We have so much to celebrate,” she concluded, fluttering her lashes over a delighted gaze.
“It’s nice,” Edward said, turning to the painting. “It reminds me of a Lava Lamp.”
“A Lava Lamp?” Bunny repeated. Her voice had a scolding tone. Michael Straub, assistant curator for research, said nothing of Lava Lamps.
Babs and Deb, who lingered with their eyes on Edward, giggled.
“I like Lava Lamps,” Edward said.
Babs and Deb raced each other to agree.
Bunny smiled.
“That’s dear, Edward. We’ll put one in your playroom.” She stared coldly at his lady friends, who showed no signs of moving. She would have to move first.
“We’re clear for departure, darling,” said Bunny. She gripped Edward’s elbow, and flashed the women a lofty smile.
“We have a little part in the program tonight,” Bunny explained, running her free hand around Edward’s back, the better to steer him.
Babs and Deb rolled their eyes at each other.
“Ta ta, my darlings,” Bunny chirped, “we’ll wave from the podium!”
She led Edward out of the gallery, moving with quick steps down the spiral ramp that descended through seven floors of the museum. In the grand, open space of the atrium, more people would see them together.
“Bunny,” Edward said, stopping in the hall. “What’s the hurry?”
“How could you stand there with that disgusting Babs Stern?”
“What’s wrong with Babs? She’s a nice girl. I’ve known her forever. Listen, she’s racing her little Boston Whaler this weekend. She invited us out to Newport for the regatta.”
“Us?”
“Where I’m invited, you’re invited,” he said, sidestepping the question with grace. As he had told Alice, Edward knew how to handle Bunny. He put his hands on Bunny’s shoulders, and turned her to face him. She looked up into the calm of his eyes.
“Relax, Bunny.” He massaged her shoulders with his fingers. “You did a great job putting this all together. Time to declare victory! Settle down, okay?”
She sighed, stretching her neck like a cat. He stroked her shoulders gently.
“I’m just nervous, that’s all.” She peered up at him, and his smile reassured her.
“You look beautiful, Bunny.” Edward’s appetite had returned with a vengeance. Ordinarily he would have grabbed something before the party, since it wasn’t a sit-down, to tide him over, but he hadn’t felt hungry this afternoon. Now all he wanted to do was shake a few hands and then run out to get some dinner.
He left his hand on Bunny’s shoulder as his mind scanned the menus he knew by heart from restaurants on the Upper East Side. “Let’s just accept the award, stay a few minutes, and skip out together for a bite to eat,” he said to her. “Just you and me.”
He turned her face to his, smiling with the pleasure of asking too much and expecting to get it, like a boy with his eyes on the dessert cart.
Bunny’s heart beat quickly. A tête-à-tête with Edward was nice, but she much preferred to show him off. She had to find a way to keep him here.
“I think we’d better stay,” she said. “There was some talk of Giorgio coming in for this himself, and if he does, I promised we’d hand the award over to him. All impromptu, no need for big speeches, but it would be appropriate to recognize him.”
She used the magic word. Edward always did what was appropriate.
“Well, I suppose that makes sense,” he agreed. With a smile, he drew her close to him. “So where are you pulling me? Is there a private room?”
He was so damned private, it drove her insane. She shook her head and coyly pulled back.
A telephone rang in his tux.
“Edward!” She glared at him. “Don’t you dare answer that!”
Edward had no reason to carry a phone when she was with him. He had a reputation, which though it was of considerable authority, Bunny tried to ignore, of being an inveterate ladies’ man. Bunny gamely insisted that Edward’s charitable work compelled him to socialize, and the ladies he dated were merely, needless to say, friends of the family.
“It wouldn’t be polite to use the cell phone here.”
“All right,” he said, his easy shrug consoling Bunny that the call was a surprise to him. “The voice mail picks up anyway.”
“Bunny, darling, can we get a picture?” Mitch Beluga, Quest’s photographer, pulled Bunny in front of a headless group of gauzy, beige-draped Armani mannequins. “You two are the stars of the night, and we’ve hardly seen you!”
Bunny took her position a half-step in front of Edward and smiled modestly, her head tilted, her eyes turned upward with tenderness. The flash of the camera brought joy to her heart.
The museum lights flickered off and on, giving Bunny a cue that the program would commence in ten minutes. She grabbed Edward’s hand to tug him along to the rotunda. Incredibly, she felt him resist.
“Come on, Edward.”
“Bunny,” he protested, “I’m starved.” He had only gotten to a couple of shrimp in the Thannhauser gallery before the ladies got to him. “I’m going to go grab a few appetizers before we get started with this thing.”
“Edward!” She looked at him suspiciously. How could he think about wild mushroom pastries at a glamorous opportunity like this one? She gasped to think that something else might be going on. Was it the phone call? That little shrimp Bitsy French was behind it, she thought. She had noticed Bitsy’s painted eyes trailing after Edward at too many parties. Behind her smile, she ground her teeth.
She darted toward him and grabbed the phone from his tux.
“No time for calls!” Bunny sang in a pleasant voice. She smiled and teased him, waving the phone in front of him like bait.
Edward shrugged, walked toward Bunny, and kissed her cheek.
“I’ll meet you down on the stage in ten minutes,” he said before leaving.
Bunny nodded. She knew when not to push him. She swung her hips as on a catwalk down the undulating ramp, rehearsing her acceptance speech.
“Still have work to do, changing people’s lives, making the world a better place, dignity through fashion…”
She was shocked to hear the phone in her hand ringing.
Stepping back into a shadow behind the display of ladies’ accessories, Bunny answered the phone. By now she was positively sure it was a call from Bitsy French.
Before she heard anyone on the line, Bunny hissed, “You little slut, if you think about calling Edward again you are over!”
She hung the phone up and turned it off. Edward would receive no more calls tonight.
A glimpse of the podium magnificently centered under the skylight gave Bunny a rush of energy. Her stage was set, and her curtains were opening. She smiled and fluttered toward George Weston and Clifford Chase, Edward’s friends from the Union Club. Accepting compliments from them both, she evaluated the cut of their tuxedos to determine whether she’d approve of them as groomsmen.